Crouching down, Zamian gnashed his teeth, glaring at his surroundings. It was a scene of destruction—even in a place untouched by the wave of earth and vines, most of the trees were toppled or scarred by battle. On his way here, he had already noticed how every wooden building had crumbled, reduced to rubble by cultivators’ techniques, and only sections of the Colossal Tree’s roots remained.

  His gaze traveled upward, following the trunk of a familiar giant tree. Unlike the rest of the area, it stood unscathed—a Colossal Tree he had climbed just days ago, the Erasmus Colossal Tree.

  Then his glare shifted to the only plant that didn’t show even a broken twig. “This blighted sapling will be the end of me,” he muttered.

  Scratching his head with both hands, his wooden armor creaking faintly, Zamian approached the sapling again. He delivered a strong hook with his right fist.

  The plant trembled. That was all.

  “Oh, come on!” he shouted, throwing his arms up in frustration before turning away.

  This wasn’t the first punch he had thrown at the sapling. Earlier, he had even used the Beginning of the Cycle technique. Each attack shook the ground with its power, but the sapling remained pristine, not even scratched.

  “I don’t even think you qualify as a consolation prize,” he muttered, kicking the bronze-skinned woman lying nearby. Her once beautiful body was filthy, covered in dirt and grime.

  Clarice.

  She was one of the Sultan’s concubines—the outsider responsible for kidnapping Lakea yesterday, costing Zamian his last side quest.

  He gave her another kick. “I lost a technique because of you,” he said. But most of his anger wasn’t about losing the technique—it was about his inability to harm the sapling.

  His gaze shifted to his right, landing on another woman, younger than Clarice. Her body was riddled with scars and dried blood. Her legs were mangled, her right eye destroyed, and her right arm was nothing more than a bloody stump.

  Frowning, Zamian crouched beside her. Memories of his childhood flickered through his mind as he poked her cheek. “Wake up, Lakea.”

  She didn’t respond, still unconscious from when he’d freed her from her shackles.

  “You’re lucky, you know that?” he said. “I don’t think any of your mother’s scouts would’ve looked for you beneath this cursed sapling.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “In fact, I wouldn’t have looked either if that vermin hadn’t used essence to leave that underground cave.”

  Brushing his hands off, Zamian stood and looked down at Lakea.

  After a few moments of silence, Zamian sighed and muttered, “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, his expression a mix of regret and exhaustion. “I’m just… I don’t even know. Frustrated, I guess? You have your own struggles, I’m sure. Surviving all this,” he said, gesturing toward Lakea’s battered body. “That’s impressive.”

  Lakea remained unconscious.

  Zamian sat beside her, letting out another sigh. “It simply doesn’t make sense, you know?” he said, exasperated, pointing at the sapling. “That blighted thing—how is it so sturdy? We could be building houses out of its bark or something. Making weapons? Armors? I don’t know.” He shook his head again, his frustration bubbling.

  Staring at the bark, his gaze flickered to the corner of his vision, where the White Dot lingered.

  “And you,” he growled. “End of the month? Are you insane? How was I supposed to destroy that thing by the end of the month? Why don’t you come here and show me how to do it?”

  Standing abruptly, Zamian punched the air in the direction of the White Dot. Not satisfied, he scanned the ground, grabbed a twig, and hurled it at the invisible entity.

  The twig arced poorly through the air, spinning off course and smacking Clarice instead.

  Pausing, he stared at her prone form, shrugged nonchalantly, and turned back toward the White Dot.

  He kicked the ground lightly. “But do you care? Of course not. You don’t care about anything except your hidden goals. Do this, Zamian. Do that, Zamian. Oh, here’s a treat if you behave. And if you don’t? Punishment!” His voice grew high, with a mocking tone.

  Pointing a finger at the corner of his vision, he added, “Your luck is that I’m dumb enough to follow your commands… and that I need you.”

  Taking a deep breath, Zamian stretched his shoulders and nodded. “Yeah, that was nice,” he muttered.

  Then, he went to Clarice, and held her hair with his left hand, dragging her through the ground.

  Walking over to Lakea, he scooped her up with his right arm, draping her limp body over his shoulder. Then, with a casual stride, he approached Clarice. Grabbing her by the hair with his left hand, he began dragging her across the ground.

  Whistling a soft tune, he paused mid-step, a thought crossing his mind. ‘Was my temper always like this?’

  He shrugged and resumed walking. The rough ground tore at Clarice’s clothing as she was dragged along, leaving a trail of fabric and dirt in their wake.

  After traversing a familiar yet utterly ravaged path through the woods, Zamian spotted a wooden abode up ahead. Glancing at the unconscious Lakea slumped over his shoulder, he muttered, “You know, when we were kids, I didn’t visit your home that often. But now? It almost feels like something is always dragging me here.”

  Shifting his gaze to Clarice, who was now covered in dirt, twigs, leaves, and grass, he smirked. “Don’t you feel it too, Mistress Clarice? This weird force dragging you?”

  Chuckling at his jest, Zamian entered the Lakea’s abode, tossing both women unceremoniously onto the wooden floor. Their bodies landed with dull thuds, both remaining unresponsive.

  “Well, this doesn’t seem as pretty as before, but it’ll suffice,” he said to himself, walking around the destroyed main room, the overturned bedrooms, and the crumbled garden.

  Zamian then turned his attention to the bags he had confiscated from the outsiders in the cave. Sitting cross-legged, he rummaged through them with mild curiosity.

  “Food… food… book about…” he flipped it over, unimpressed, “food… more food… food,” he muttered, tossing each item onto the floor. His gaze flickered to Clarice, a mocking grin forming on his face. “Do you outsiders eat rocks or something? You seem to care a lot about food.”

  After rifling through another bag, his hand brushed against something different. The texture was unlike the rough fabric or hardened materials he’d handled so far. Lifting it carefully, his eyes scanned the object.

  “Is this… leather?” he whispered, running his fingers over the material before reading the letters inscribed on it. His expression shifted rapidly—from indifference to intrigue, then to barely-contained fury, before finally settling on a feral grin.

  “As mother used to say, you’re a gift that keeps on giving, Clarice,” he muttered, his tone dark. “I was thinking about handing you over to Yokki’s scouts, but now…”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  He trailed off, his grin widening as he stared at the contents of the leather-bound document. “I believe we have much, much more to talk about.”

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  After a few hours, as a new day began—and Zamian only knew this because of his instincts— neither of the women had woken up. Zamian, cultivating in the garden and training new movements, felt a sudden spike of essence near the abode’s entrance.

  Rushing to investigate, he stopped abruptly upon seeing three figures clad in wooden armor. One of them was familiar. Clapping lightly, Zamian smiled. “A little late to the party, but I’m glad you came.”

  Two of the Zealots immediately aimed their spears at him, but the third—a middle-aged man—sighed heavily. “Wait, this is Dante’s son, Zamian, he’s not an enemy,” Wallace said, his eyes shifting to the dirt-covered women lying on the floor. One, an outsider in tattered clothes with dried blood on her head, and the other, a battered figure he instantly recognized, missing part of her arm and riddled with wounds.

  “At least I don’t think he’s our enemy,” Wallace added cautiously.

  As the atmosphere grew tense, Zamian strolled casually toward Clarice, pointing at Lakea. “That’s the one you’re looking for, right? She passed out a few hours ago. I’d like to say you shouldn’t worry, but let’s be real—every one of you is probably imagining what Yokki will do to you if her daughter dies shortly after being found.”

  Zamian pressed his foot firmly on Clarice’s face, his gaze calm but unnervingly sharp as it flicked between the three Zealots.

  The Zealots exchanged uncertain glances before Wallace asked, “Where did you find her? Who is this one with you? And how did you know we’d come here?”

  Zamian shook his head, smirking. “Bringing all the answers for Mommy, huh? Good boy.” Not waiting for a response, he continued. “I found her in a cave underground. This,” he gestured toward Clarice, “is my new house-flower. And as for how I knew you’d show up—simple. If Lakea escaped and found the Sanctuary in its current state, she’d come straight home. Her captors wouldn’t be dumb enough to look for her here.”

  He clicked his tongue, adding dryly, “Not that she’s always the brightest, but you all would surely think of checking here from time to time.”

  Wallace opened his mouth to press further, but Zamian raised a hand to stop him. “Come on, now. I’m either insane, stronger than all of you combined, or both. Do you really want to keep playing with me and find out which option is the right one?”

  Grinding his teeth, Wallace finally stepped forward, carefully picking up Lakea. The other two Zealots remained tense, positioning themselves between Zamian and Wallace, spears poised.

  Zamian maintained an outwardly calm demeanor, but his muscles grew tense, ready to attack at the first sign of danger.

  Once Lakea was secured, Wallace nodded curtly, and without another word, the three Zealots retreated, carrying her with them.

  Zamian stood still, his half-smile fading into a cold expression as he watched them disappear. After a few breaths, he exhaled slowly, removing his foot from Clarice’s face.

  Grabbing the outsider by her neck, he hoisted her up effortlessly.

  His grip tightened gradually.

  There was a reason Zamian had remained so close to Clarice while the Zealots were there—he didn’t trust them to leave her unharmed. From past experiences, he knew that a Zealot’s instincts would scream when faced with imminent danger.

  “And for you outsiders who’ve lived so long in that blighted land,” Zamian muttered, his voice low and venomous, “your instincts must be sharp enough to wake you up.”

  As if on cue, Clarice’s eyes flew open, her body glowing faintly with a brown hue. Her hands clawed frantically at Zamian’s armored arm while she unleashed a barrage of punches and desperate kicks against him.

  “Le… Let… Me… Go…” she muttered, her breath coming in short gasps. She wanted to focus, to cast a technique, but her thoughts faltered every time she met Zamian’s cold, unflinching eyes and that unsettling half-smile.

  He was daring her. Taunting her to use her techniques.

  To struggle.

  “I-I have… information,” Clarice rasped through gritted teeth, her vision blurring as she faltered in her attempt to enhance her body with Earth’s essence.

  Tightening his grip, Zamian’s cold voice cut through her panic. “Keep wasting your essence.”

  Her instincts screamed, and she hastily resumed channeling essence into her body, her mind racing with fragmented plans for escape.

  “Cast your techniques,” he urged, his tone mocking. “The faster you deplete your essence, the sooner we can leave here.”

  Clarice knew her body could survive without breathing longer than most—years of training in subterranean conditions had ensured that. But the pressure on her neck was concerning, forcing her to pour more and more of her essence into her defenses just to prevent her spine from snapping!

  Desperation clawed at her thoughts. She considered pleading, offering Zamian her secrets, even bargaining with her body.

  But each time she lingered on such ideas, her instincts rebelled, urging her to do the only thing that might appease the monster in front of her—survive by expending every drop of essence she had.

  More than anything, the fact that her instincts only behaved like that in the presence of Warlords or the Sultan himself forced Clarice to stay quiet. She funneled every drop of her essence through her body, wasting it as the brown hue around her expanded and flickered.

  Seeing her compliance, Zamian released his grip, watching coldly as her body crumpled to the ground.

  His attention didn’t linger on her pitiful form—face smeared with grass, mud, and fragments of broken twigs—or her tattered clothing that revealed more than it concealed. None of that mattered to him.

  What held his focus was the faint brown essence she continued to expend, dissipating into the air around her.

  For half an hour, Zamian stood still, his cold eyes locked on her as the glow surrounding her body began to fade away. Clarice lay trembling, her breaths shallow, until finally, she lifted her gaze and met Zamian’s stare.

  Breaking the silence, Zamian’s voice cut through the tension. “Did you use all of your essence?”

  Clarice nodded weakly, her body trembling.

  A faint smile curled at the corner of Zamian’s lips. Without hesitation, he drove his foot into her face, sending her sprawling to the ground. Blood sprayed onto the wooden floor, and a pained cry escaped her lips as she clutched at her face with shaking hands.

  “Be smarter,” Zamian said, his tone eerily calm. “Next time, don’t lie.”

  As he noticed the faint brown glow of her essence flickering back to life, his frown deepened. ‘Was I always this cruel? When did it become so easy to hurt and kill? The thought gnawed at him as images of the battles, the blood, and the lives he had taken flitted through his mind. Was it after seeing father killing that Zealot? Or was it after understanding that all life ends in death?’

  He sighed heavily, recalling something his father had once said: that their souls would make it easier to deal with these situations.

  The sound of his sigh made Clarice flinch, her brown glow intensifying in response.

  “...” Zamian blinked, shrugged, and kept watching her struggle and burn through the remnants of her essence.

  Another half hour passed before Clarice let out a strained grunt, her glow flickering violently before vanishing entirely. Unlike before, when it faded gradually, this time it extinguished all at once. Her body sagged, trembling as she gasped for air.

  “I’m out of essence now,” she managed to mutter, her voice hoarse and weak.

  Zamian nodded.

  Breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling with effort, Clarice pushed herself to her knees. Her lips trembled, and her eyes darted between Zamian and the ground as she whispered, “What will you do to me now?”

  Zamian chuckled, his tone mocking and sharp. “I’m sad your plan didn’t work.”

  Clarice looked at him, her confusion evident.

  He shrugged nonchalantly, pointing toward the entrance of the room. “Taking an hour to burn through that much essence, hoping someone would feel it and come to check. That was clever.” He patted her shoulder lightly, a mocking gesture. “I’ll admit, it took me a while to figure it out. But guess what? No one came. You got me excited for nothing.”

  Her lips quivered, and her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and frustration. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Zamian raised his hand, pressing a single finger to her lips to silence her.

  “I ask, you answer. If you lie, I beat you.” His tone was flat. “Now, sit.”

  Clarice hesitated but sat down, turning her face toward Zamian while hugging her knees, her movements slow and delicate. “Okay,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

  “You’re dangerous and smart,” Zamian said, his brows furrowing as he observed her attempt to look pitiful. “I hope I don’t regret keeping you alive.”

  Clarice remained silent, her eyes flickering with unease.

  “First, what is this?” Zamian cut to the chase, pulling the leather parchment from his waist and holding it up.

  “It’s an order from the Sultan, brought by one of the Great Warriors under my command,” she replied cautiously.

  “Explain it,” Zamian demanded.

  Clarice’s lips pressed into a thin line. She doubted Zamian couldn’t read the letter, so she spoke carefully. “It says the Sultan recalled most of his Warlords to chase a dangerous Chosen who’s wreaking havoc in the Oasis. Only three Warlords remained in the Sanctuary, and they’re currently entangled in a fight with an unknown group of Chosen, alongside our allies here. Finally, it assures me that one of his sons would come with a group of Great Warriors to rescue me and that I was to continue pursuing the children I claimed to be after…” She paused. “I mean kids, not the Children. And, I was waiting for this rescue team, planning to take that girl to the Sultan personally.”

  Zamian nodded along with her explanation. As soon as she finished, he asked, “And who is this Clarice hesitated, biting her lower lip.

  Seeing her falter, Zamian moved his leg slightly, readying himself for a kick.

  “Wait!” Clarice shouted, panic flashing across her face. “He’s a Warlord!”

  Crouching down to her eye level, Zamian’s gaze bore into her. “And what is his name?”

  “...Ruen,” she said after a brief silence, her voice uncertain. “He’s one of the Sultan’s most talented sons, despite his temper.”

  A dry chuckle escaped Zamian’s lips. Grabbing her hair, he yanked her face closer to his, their eyes locking. His voice turned icily calm as he said, “Then, Mistress Clarice, it’s time we have a long conversation about Ruen, his siblings, the Sultan, his concubines, his wives, and everyone else responsible for destroying my home.”